


Saving Goodbye

by abovethesmokestacks



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst and Feels, F/M, Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-12-07 18:51:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18238883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovethesmokestacks/pseuds/abovethesmokestacks
Summary: His visits are all play pretend. One second there is nothing, the next you hear the sound of his motorbike, and your heart and steps quicken to meet him on the porch, some small part of you hoping this time it will be different. It never is. It’s always like this.





	Saving Goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> Another crosspost, this time for a fic based on one of my all time favourite Johnnyswim-songs. Lots of feels in this one. Or, you know, so I've been told.

His visits are all play pretend.

One second there is nothing, the next you hear the sound of his motorbike, and your heart and steps quicken to meet him on the porch, some small part of you hoping this time it will be different. It never is. It’s always like this. Dust kicking up from the wheels of his bike, that beautiful split second before he pulls the helmet from his head and you see the expression you’ve come to love and hate. Bucky tries so hard to smile, to give you what you want, but his smiles never quite reach his eyes, and there is always that undeniable tension in his shoulders that never really melts from him. He tries and tries, and you have stopped pushing.

He needs his illusions, and who are you kidding, you appreciate yours.

The two of you stumbled into this, passing each other and gravitating back to latch onto each others’ embrace when nothing else would stay together. The world seemed to crumble before your eyes, but the instant you came together, the burden of the world’s expectations seemed a little lighter. For a while it was light, and there was purpose in saving the world. Surely, there were only so many ways disaster could strike and surely there would be moments of peace and time to just be yourselves and not some figurehead that inspired awe and admiration in your supporters and fear in your enemies. Finally there came a day when you couldn’t carry on, when you yourself felt so broken you couldn’t piece yourself together enough to go do the same for the rest of the world.

You retired into anonymity, a far off house with a porch and no purpose except waking up and not having to pretend anymore.

But the thing about not pretending anymore is that you can’t cherry pick. You were yourself, but that person also missed the warmth of another body, and the bed you slept in always had one side cold, where the sheets longed to drape over a body you knew all too well. The first time he showed up, you were so sure Bucky had changed his mind, that he had come to stay, to carve out a life you had desperately pleaded for when you told him you were retiring. He’d shaken his head, a sadness clouding his eyes as he looked down, and in that moment you knew he’d never stay.

He still liked to pretend. Or escape. Really, what is the difference? You had already accepted the pretense.

Time and time again, he returns. Time and time again you invite him to stay, though your attempts get subtler with every fleeting visit. Maybe if he sees there is a place for him here, a space for him to fit into, he’ll stay eventually. No matter. Your attempts turn against you. He has his side of the bed, closest to the door, and you never hear him leave. You have an extra toothbrush in your bathroom, and sometimes there are shared smiles that are more foam than teeth, but inbetween there is a lone toothbrush sitting there and mocking the fact that there is someone missing. There is a mug in your cupboard that you brought with you when you moved, a mug you know he’s seen, but it’ll never fill to the brim with coffee, never feel his lips, never join yours at the sturdy oak table. Your nights will always end in goodbyes instead of goodnights.

Bucky’s been adamant, much as you can spot the struggle. He’ll give you a day, an evening, a fraction of a dream where he allows himself the life that could have been. Sometimes it’s lazy evenings out on the porch, the soft wind caressing you, his finger tips making sighing music on the rim of his glass. Sometimes it’s wordless, your bodies pulled together like magnets, trails of clothes leaving evidence of time spent apart. Sometimes it feels so close to a semblance of reality, and those are the worst. They’re the mornings you wake up and still feel a lingering warmth on Bucky’s side of the bed, hear the coffee percolating from the kitchen, thinking he’s down the hall waiting for you. Even though the illusion shatters every time, you live it right to the edge you inevitable fall from. It’s finding a house that feels eerily void, drinking your coffee black to drown out the bitterness and remembering his mumbled words from the night before.

” _You deserve better than this.”_

_”_ _So do you, Bucky.”_

” _I don’t understand you, sweetheart. I really don’t. You should be slamming the door in my face, not leaving it wide open for me, because I’ll keep comin’ back. I’ll keep turning up on your doorstep like a bad penny, I’ll wreck the life you got here, and I won’t forgive myself if I do.”_

They’re the mornings when you promise yourself to heed his warning and turn him down the next time. They’re the mornings when you look around and think maybe you should move. You know enough about disappearing to do it. What passes for severance pay from the Avengers has been generous, keeping you afloat and then some, allowing you the lifestyle you desperately needed and a buffer for unexpected expenses. You could cash it, leave the house, vanish and reinvent yourself.

They’re thoughts that seem to vanish when once again he steps into your life. Dust on the road, the purr of a motorcycle, a gentle knock on the door. When you open, Bucky offers the almost-smile and wraps his arms around you, breathing little easier for however many hours he’s staying this time. He’s early today, and it’s always a guessing game whether it means he’ll have to leave sooner or if he’s staying late. He offers to cook, smiling when you jump to sit on the counter.

”Thought there wasn’t supposed to be any living meat on the counter.”

”There. No living meat on the counter.”

The hours slowly pass, and Bucky makes no move to leave. You know he will, he always does, and it’s hard to decide if this is cruel or kind. He can stay as long as possible, keep your little dream alive. Letting him cook dinner and teasingly try to backseat cook until playfully slaps your thigh with a wooden spoon. Hanging the laundry while he chops up more firewood for you, mumbling about how there’s a chill coming soon. Going through your night time routine and catching him preparing your coffee maker for tomorrow. It stings your heart as much as it warms it, and later when he sheds his clothes to crawl into bed with you, you almost ask him not to, it’d be kinder to just leave. You’ve done this so many times, dealt with the heart ache the morning after.

”Goodnight, Bucky.”

At least he doesn’t say goodbye this time, like he usually does. Your heart nearly skips a beat when he hums, pressing a kiss to your forehead and whispering goodnight. You dare not hope he’ll stay, but maybe there won’t be another goodbye until… _until it really is goodbye_.You fall asleep tucked into his side, waking up to a hand clutching at nothing but cool sheets and traces of his presence throughout the house. The temptation to leave flares as you feel the caffeine spark through you. This is no way of living for either of you, and you both know it.

But no matter the itch in your soul, you’d never go through with it, your hearts are too tethered to each other. You’ve never asked him what he’d do if you put your plan into action, and you don’t need to ask yourself what would happen because somehow, you know. No matter how far you’d run, or how small of a place you’d find for yourself, Bucky would work his way into it.

A side of the bed. A mug in the cupboard. A space waiting to be filled.


End file.
